


Return

by karakael



Series: The Illusion of Separation [1]
Category: Avatar: Legend of Korra
Genre: Depression, Gen, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-23
Updated: 2013-08-23
Packaged: 2017-12-24 10:33:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/938953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karakael/pseuds/karakael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After his brothers clumsy attempts at murder-suicide Amon is forced to chose between letting them die or making a new life. He chooses a third rout; erasing his brother's memories and returning to Republic City to become his former Lieutenant's invisible protector.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Lighthouse Keepers

The moon was waning above Harlock’s Point, bringing comfort to the small fishing village that clustered around the lighthouse. The patchy news radioed in from Republic City had been grim, talking about revolts and blood benders. Republic City wasn’t far enough away for them to feel safe: they’d seen the armada pass by, and the distant smoke when it was sunk. The Revolution could have struck them, even on this remote outpost, tearing their lives apart as easily as it had torn apart Republic City, especially if the Equalists had known the kindness the fishermen had given to Bumi’s fleet. Children had been scared by the ships, the water and earth-benders looked frightened of former friends, and nothing that came through on the radio decreased their fears. 

But everyone slept easier beneath the waning moon, secure in the knowledge that at least no blood-benders could disrupt their hard-sought peace.

\-----------------------------------------------------------

The Lighthouse Keeper was jarred awake with a pounding on the lower door. His wife was already awake, her hands automatically going to her healing bag while he glanced beyond the heavy blinds to ensure that the light was still going strong and that there was no obvious shipwrecks. The waters around Harlock’s Point were dangerous, and this wouldn’t be the first time his family had been woken up by panicked sailors.

Nor would it be the last. He was halfway down the stairs when his wife threw open the door and screamed for him. The last few steps were taken at a run, and he only had time to glance at the two blood-splattered men before he was hurrying to boil water and get her surgery supplies ready.

Rin tugged a white sheet over the kitchen table, ordering the elder man to place the heavily injured younger on the table. On second examination, the wounds were not as bad as they seemed – somehow both men hadn't lost nearly as much blood as they should have. The salt water had already cleaned their cuts and a hap-hazard attempt at binding the worst of the wounds had been made by the barely-conscious older man.

“You. Sit.” She demanded, as her husband arrived with clean bandages, hot water and scissors. The man did not so much as sit as collapse, falling back on the couch and passing out almost immediately. Luckily Tarn had already anticipated this, and there was a sheet covering this surface as well. He checked the man’s vitals as Rin tugged shrapnel out of the younger man. The heartbeat beneath his finger tips was dangerously faint and erratic. Twice Tarn had to call his wife from her work just to ensure the man stayed breathing, and then had to help her manhandle him onto the table next to the other.

“Where could they have come from?” He asked once the worst of the danger had passed, but she simply shook her head.

“No insignia on the uniforms.” Rin said after working another minute or so. By now the men’s clothing was a pile of scraps on the floor, with water-nation blue and mud-brown mingling as the dyes broke down and stained the cloth beneath them.

“No shipwrecks on the horizon.” He replied, gathering the scraps and feeding them into the coal fire. “And no more smoke either.”

They both glanced in the direction of Republic City, just barely visible on the early-morning horizon. It was hard to believe five hours had gone by.

“Did you check the rocks?” Rin asked as she tightened a final stitch on the younger man’s stomach.

Tarn nodded. “No sign of other survivors. Just some ice against the north face.”

Rin wiped her hands on the tablecloth. “The younger man looks like a water-bender. Perhaps they floated here from the Armada.”

The Lighthouse Keeper took this into consideration. “How old did you say those wounds were?”

“At least six hours. I’m not sure _how_ they managed to survive that long.” Rin brooded a bit. “If the younger is a water-bender, then perhaps he kept them alive somehow. No wonder he’s so exhausted.”

“He doesn’t look like the sort to be a healer.” 

They both looked at the worn face. He certainly looked familiar, with his chiseled features and deep lines. But neither could quite recognize him.

“He looks…wrong.” Was all Rin said, before leaving to make tea and clean her instruments.

Tarn had to agree. A face like that shouldn’t be looking so peaceful. It was a commanding face, one that should show up on coins wearing a suit and a forced smile, not be lying slack on a kitchen table with a faint smile directed at who knows what.

Tarn reached over and brushed the man’s short hair from his face, searching for a sign of danger. The Lighthouse Keepers had healed some pirates once, and it was only a bit of quick (and luckily unexpected) fire-bending from Tarn that had saved them when the pirates decided to take what had been freely given.

But this man, with his lined face and hair that looked like it’d been cut with and ice-pick certainly didn’t feel like danger.

“He doesn’t remember anything.”

The Lighthouse Keeper started, and turned quickly to the other man, who was sitting up and staring at him from behind a mask of bandages, fingering the wound on his side gingerly.

“What do you mean?”

“He woke for a bit while we were on open water. He didn’t remember his name or where he came from.”

The man was about to say more when a cough wracked his system, and he doubled over in pain. Broken ribs, Rin had said. Along with a punctured lung and what appeared to be a broken shoulder. Not to mention the hundreds smaller injuries the man had sustained. Tarn was surprised he had even made it to consciousness, much less been able to talk.

Still, Rin said that talking to people encouraged positive thought and aided the healing process. So Tarn tried again when the coughing had subsided.

“What happened?”

There was a pause, which the lighthouse keeper took as an attempt by the injured man to get his breath back. “We were part of General Iroh’s armada. Our ship went down in the Equalist attack, and he saved my life by pulling me out of the sinking ship. But then he lost conscious and we got caught in the dark current and swept out to sea.” Another pause, and then the man finally met Tarn’s eyes. When he spoke again his voice shook. “I thought we were going to freeze to death, out there in the cold water. He was bleeding out, and I could barely swim anymore…and then I saw your lighthouse. You saved us.”

Rin appeared in the doorway and looked surprised to see one of her patients up. She had two steaming cups of tea in her hands.

“You shouldn’t be up!” She hissed. “On the couch, now! And don’t you _dare_ ask him another question!” she chided her husband. 

“Only one more, Rin, please?” He begged, hiding a smile at her frustrated expression.

“What is it?” she snapped.

“I was hoping for their names.”


	2. Another Name

Amon froze, his mind going blank at the question. He had had too many false names over the span of the last forty years. Each time he started a new life he’d gained a new name.

And look where that lead him. Half dead, stranded in the middle of nowhere with everything he’d built in shambles. He didn’t even have the energy to be angry. But nor did he have the energy to tell the truth.

He settled for half measures, hating himself for it.

“Noa.” He said. “My name is Noa.”

\---------------------------------------------------------------

Bleak despair was something the Lighthouse keepers were familiar with. One didn’t lose a ship without losing loved ones, cherished companions or family. So they said nothing when the man turned away, refusing to answer more than his name and explain that he didn’t know the other man’s.

“I wasn’t familiar with him.” He explained later. “If he has a name, he’ll have to find it for himself. I didn’t know him at all.”

The expression on his face darkened, and Rin backed away hurriedly. Tarn might trust the shipwrecked sailor, but she didn’t. Every time one of his moods struck – and they did so often during the three days she spent healing the two men – she always felt as if he was about to strike…whether at her, or at himself. Loss did that to people sometimes, twisting them in on themselves and making them hate everything. It wasn’t her business to fix that kind of hurt, but she could at least protect her family from it.

Quietly, not mentioning it to her husband, she hid the knives and the more dangerous equipment away. Tarn barely noticed it, focusing instead on wheedling as much information as possible from Noa.

“No, I don’t know who won.” Noa said, a note of anger in his voice. “When we sunk the war wasn’t over.”

“Yes, but surely the United Forces wouldn’t have lost to some shoddy revolutionaries!” Tarn smiled, setting the bowls on the table for their second dinner together. Noa was finally well enough to sit with the rest of them. “General Bumi –” 

“I know almost nothing about General Bumi.” Noa’s expression was blank, indicating to Rin that he was keeping it very carefully in check. Tarn assumed that the answer was reflective of the man’s story of being part of Iroh’s fleet. 

“Surely you must have – “ 

“I don’t.” Noa blithely changed the subject. “But you must know more than I, by now. I saw your radio equipment when I climbed here. Haven’t they sent out updates?”

Tarn sighed. “Those shoddy Equalists took over the station, and I couldn’t understand their codes. And then there was a bunch of military stuff. I’m good with shipping codes, but the normal transmissions are hard to decipher.” He helped himself to another serving. “I’m the only one in the village who can even work the machine, though.” 

“I can translate for you.”

The Lighthouse Keepers exchanged glances.

“Really?” Rin sounded suspicious. “Not many…”

Tarn interrupted. “Come now, love. Of course a military man like Noa here would be able to read code.” 

Noa nodded. “Non-benders work most of the coding offices in the fleet.” The Lighthouse Keepers didn’t blink, taking this for proof that the man was a non-bender. “I can begin – “

“After dinner.” The doctor in Rin took over. “Decipher the codes after dinner. Tarn, don’t badger a wounded man!”

Her husband shrugged his acquiescence, and took a third serving and added another helping for Noa, not listening to the man’s protests. An injured man needed food, no matter what he said to the contrary.

After dinner, as Rin cleaned the kitchen and began soaking the blood-stained sheets, Tarn cleared the table and handed Noa as sheaf of telegraph printouts from the last two days. The man scanned the first sheet, and then asked for a pen. Then he sat, transcribing the codes, writing with a steady, practiced hand under the glow of the cowhale lamps.

Tarn looked over Noa’s shoulder as he worked, reading the highlights aloud for Rin.

“Says here that the Equalists airbase was took down by a couple of kids!” He kept reading. “And then the uprising was stopped when it was revealed that the Equalist leader was a blood-bender? Not possible!”

The big man’s eyes skimmed the page, reading later transmissions.

“Sato’s in prison…fighting in the streets has been quelled by a joint taskforce…military to rendezvous at Air Temple Island…125 confirmed dead, 500 wounded…Equalist truce…hey, why’d you stop writing?”

Noa was staring fixedly at the final paragraph of numbers. Tarn nudged him cautiously. “Noa?”

“Ah. Sorry.” The pen flew again, explaining how both the Equalist leader and Councleman Tarrlok were confirmed dead, presumably from suicide. Tarn didn’t doubt the translation, despite the codes being unfamiliar and strange. The man clearly knew his codes well enough to do just about anything with them.

Noa spoke again, cautiously. “This final row of numbers, see here? It says that all military personnel must return for a final Equalist rally.” Tarn looked blank.

“That means that all the revolution leaders have been captured.” There was a pause, while Noa struggled to hide his reaction to this information. “They’re probably going to make a conciliatory speech, to buffer the new government’s power.”

“Does that mean you have to return?” Rin placed the final dish on the rack and turned. “You’re in no shape to travel, and your companion hasn’t even woken up yet.”

Noa’s eyes were blank, but he smiled. “Orders are orders. I have to be back in Republic City before the rally. I’ve had worse injuries than this – I can travel.”

Tarn and Rin looked unconvinced. The man had almost been dead yesterday, and now he could barely walk and still had had trouble breathing. But one couldn’t go against orders given out by the joint fleet.

“Stay the night.” Rin ordered. “We’ll ride take you into town tomorrow morning, as far as the train-stop. Your commander can’t expect more than that!”

Noa nodded. “It’s the best I can do. Thank you.” He turned to Tarn. “Might I use your telegraph to tell my commander I’m coming?”

The other man nodded. “It’s up the stairs. Can you manage them, in your condition?”

Another nod, and Noa laboriously hoisted himself up. _At least five broken ribs._ Thought Rin. _And a punctured lung. I must keep him from overtaxing himself._ Not that she trusted or even liked the man. But he was a patient, and at the very least she could give him some instruction for recuperation, even if it would take a miracle to make him follow them.

\----------------------------------- 

“C-77-38-7-5-1” Repeated Tarn. “What does it mean, again?”

Noa leaned back from the relay station, his hand shaking from the evening’s strain. “I confirmed my location and informed them of my return.”

Tarn looked perplexed. “It sounds like gibberish to me. Why’d you repeat the bit about those two Leader’s deaths?”

“Just to confirm that there had been no other bodies that had washed up on shore. Though there’s no way they could have gotten out this far from the city.” Another pause. “There’s no way these lines could go down, is there? My commander might have more orders for me during the night…”

Tarn shrugged. “They’re not particularly secure. Ice freezes them up all the time, and it usually takes a few weeks to get repairmen in. But I doubt that will happen tonight. Even with the storm coming.”

Noa nodded, his face back to that calm darkness that Rin had commented upon earlier. Tarn shivered slightly.

“Come on then, let’s check on your friend, and then get you to bed. Rin will have my hide if you don’t get a full sleep tonight.”

He helped the soldier to his feet, then followed him down the stairs, locking up behind him. Rin had insisted on that last measure, despite the fact that the injured man could barely climb the stairs, and needed to be helped down the last of them. But she was right…there was something about the man that just felt dangerous. But Tarn knew sailors, and had rescued many off the rocks before. This man possessed no danger to them.

Rin was right to lock up the knives, though.

_______________________________________________

“Sir? We just received a code C-77. Confirmation of the death of Noatak and Tarrlok by a small fishing village about a day’s journey from, Harlock’s Point. Says the villagers pulled the bodies from the ocean and burned them.”

“What? Those fools!” The commander hissed. “Now we’ll never have evidence of their death!”

“Says they’re sending a soldier into town with their personal effects. He’ll be here by the rally.”

There was a sigh of relief. “Thank the Spirits. Pay the man’s way with the train station, then make sure the line to Harlock’s point stay’s open.”

________________________________________

“Tarn?” Noa winced as the bigger man set him down on the converted couch. “Thank you.”

“No need to thank me, Sailor.”

“No. It’s…been a long time since a bender has showed me this much kindness.”

Tarn paused, surprised. His abilities were weak, only enough to keep the lighthouse running, and normally people never even guessed he could fire-bend. Heck, half the village didn’t know. “Bending’s only part of me, Noa. It was never enough to get me into the navy, but it is enough to keep my wife and me safe. I’d hate to think that you’re like those Equalists, thinking that benders would turn their back on someone just because of their abilities.”

A pause. “Of course not.”

And there it was again, that look that Rin had mentioned; that sullen, dark anger, coupled with some kind of indescribable anguish. The anger was so strong that Tarn would have normally fled, but it wasn’t directed at him – no, all of it was directed at Noa himself, and Tarn could feel as the man curled in on himself, directing the pain and anger ever deeper into his heart and mind. Something happened, on that ship, that he hates himself for, the Lighthouse Keeper thought, and caught his wife’s eye as she poked her head in to check on the patients. Both waited for the sailor’s next move.

There was an uncomfortable silence, and then Tarn forced a laugh. “Anyways, Rin can’t bend, but boy can she kick my ass on just about everything, and thank the Spirits for it. You should be thanking her, not me! Her knowledge saved your life, and your friend’s!”

The anger flicked off like a light, and Noa smiled. “Indeed. Your wife is an amazing woman.” He turned to Rin, all the anger hidden easily behind the false smile. “And my companion is lucky, madam, for your skills. My life is immaterial, in comparison to his. You have my everlasting gratitude for what you have done for us.”

“About your companion…” Rin bit her lip, clearly thinking of the danger of moving the comatose man.

“He will remain here. I’ll tell my superior about him, and they’ll retrieve him when the city is safe.”

The healer relaxed. “What shall we tell him when he awakes?”

The man shrugged, wincing slightly. “That he was a water bender and an amazing man.”

Tarn glanced out at the open, and the huge distance between Harrlock’s Point and Republic City. “He must have been, to bring you this far.”

_________________________

“Sir? The line to Harrlock’s point went down sometime during the night.”

“WHAT?!” The commander sputtered and slammed his coffee cup down. “When? How?”

“We don’t know, sir. The code manifests say it happens all the time, usually because of ice one the wires.”

“Did you send the orders and the tickets?”

“Yessir. The soldier should be here with proof of death by sundown."


	3. Defeated

“Damn, the line went down last night.”

Noa looked up, translating the last of the codes, and sighed. “This will have to be good enough, then.” There was a flicker of steel in his eyes, and he continued. “I hope they get a repair crew out quickly.”

The Lighthouse Keepers nodded.

“I wish they could get radio-signals to travel farther.” Added Tarn. “Be sure to send a message when you reach the city. Especially if you can find any details about this guy.” He pointed to the still-sleeping patient.

The elder patient agreed, then finished up the final line. “They have tickets waiting for me. But before we go into town, there is something I must retrieve.”

Rin and Tarn exchanged glances, but helped him down the slope to the secluded cove the two soldiers had come to shore on. There, hidden against the rocks, was a water-soaked bag which Noa looped over his shoulder without comment. His expression shut down any questions they might have had, and they sent him on his way without ever seeing its contents.

——————-

The proof was adequate at best, and the middle-aged man who brought it in too badly injured to give full details on how he had ended up in Harrlock’s Point in time to see the other bodies dragged up on shore.

The commander privately believed the soldier had a few screws knocked loose, a fact that was later confirmed by the medic who healed the wounds that had ripped open after the six hour jarring train-ride.

“Concussion.” She whispered as the man laboriously stood and offered a salute.

That would explain why he couldn’t remember even the most rudimentary pass-codes or the name of the water-bender who had saved him from the freezing waters.

“Patch him up and get him back on his feet. We need every man we can get for the rally.”

The healer nodded, and moved the bag the man had brought with him to the floor. The commander gestured to his assistant to retrieve it and examined the contents while the medic went about her work.

One mask, chipped and scuffed, but clearly in the style of the Equalist leader. Two Equalist gloves, mangled beyond repair by the seawater. A soggy note-book, a handful of blue hair-clasps, a bit of silver jewelry…

The commander looked closer. The silver rings were actually buttons, emblazoned with the former Councilman’s seal. That, and the notebook, should the writing be verified as Amon’s, would be good enough proof. He sighed with relief.

“Good work, soldier. You’ve done a great service to Republic City – and the world – by proving once and for all that those two madmen are gone.”

The mute patient nodded sadly, then relaxed slightly as the man signaled for his assistants and strode out of the room, intent upon confirming his new find.

The healer recoiled. “Oh! That’s strange?”

“What is it, Hari?” Another waterbender rushed over, worried that another patient had gone critical.

“This man…he had a concussion a moment ago, but now it’s gone!”

The older nurse looked unimpressed. “Really, Hari. Making miss-diagnosis’s at a time like this? You should be ashamed!”

“I know what I saw! He had a concussion! But now the excess blood in the area is all gone!”

Hari’s superior continued to look skeptical, but then another patient was wheeled in and both nurses spun into action, the matron shouting orders back to her subordinate.

“Don’t worry about it, girl. Just do as the general says – patch him up and get him on his feet, then come help me with this one! Looks like an amputation…”

The younger nurse nodded, finishing the final bandage and directing the man to the temporary barracks. Strange, how the man never said a word during his entire time at the base – just nodded and frowned, as if that was adequate answer, and thus far it had been. There hadn’t been any problem with his throat…but then there was a scream, and Hari was gone, back into her duties, forgetting about the mute man completely.

———-

He couldn’t speak. That much was obvious, here in a city where his half-bandaged face would get him nothing more than sympathetic glances. No one knew his face (at least, not without the Equalist uniform on and his hair cut even shorter than it had been). No, it was his voice that had rang out across Republic City, and so it was his voice that he kept hidden.

He didn’t dare seek shelter in the underground; it would be populated by Equalists and the United Forces alike, and he couldn’t risk being questioned to closely by either. Nor could he appear at the homeless camps, for while they didn’t ask questions, the network of the truly oppressed watched far more closely and was far more perceptive than the city at large. They would have realized who he was within an hour.

So instead he took to the streets, falling into a routine he barely remembered, from his first time in a city. Ba Sing Se had been fifteen years ago, but the habits of three months of terror were ingrained deep.

He had been running from two nations, then, just like now. He had been outed as a blood-bender, just as now.

And he had deserved every hardship he’d gone through.

Funny, how life repeated itself.

Of course, Noatak of thirty-five had a few more difficulties than the Noatak of twenty. Sleeping on the ground was harder on stiff bones, doubly so on broken ones. The air wasn’t so cold at night, fifteen years ago, the stars hadn’t looked so grim.

But he knew this city. He knew its shadows and its alleys. There was a time when he’d sworn he’d never live in a city again, and he’d spent five years of traveling making true on that promise, but leaving this city had torn a hole in him that he hadn’t even anticipated.

Well. Leaving the “city” might be a little too broad. But he wasn’t thinking of that, else the black despair would well up again, and he might find himself wandering into the street begging to be tried for his crimes.

But the first time he had been tempted to do that, the evening after he’d faked his discharge, he’d heard snippets of conversation that stopped him in his tracks: of how the UF forces had taken control of the city, how the remaining leaders of the Equalists had been captured and at least one had been killed, and then the whispers of the Equalist announcement that everyone was so terrified of.

He’d begged a newspaper off the vendor and sat reading it, his face hidden behind its pages and his mind beginning to whirl. He could almost feel the weight of the mask back on his face, as the necessary steps for an Equalist reconciliation fell into place. First, he would need his notes, then a way into the rally, then –

The paper was torn away, and he was dragged to his feet by a triad gang.

“Hey! You’re one of those Soldier boys, ain’t you?”

He looked blank, remembering that these weren’t his Equalist leathers, but instead the ratty Imperial Forces uniform the hospital had handed out.

“Do you bastards know what your fire-bombs did to my neighborhood?”

He anticipated the blows, but his body was too injured to deflect them. He caught the first blow to the stomach, and felt another rib snap. Then there was nothing to do but wait for the second…

_You deserve this._

The thought fell straight through the pain, hitting him hard enough to force his eyes open and look again at his attackers.

The three were surely from a triad gang, but they weren’t using bending, instead going in for kicks and punches. They hauled him upright and slammed him against the wall, not with earth but human effort.

_Were you going to control these men?_

The next blow bloodied his nose, setting it askew.

_Did you really think you could help them?_

Another black eye formed.

_Look what you’ve done to them!_

Their cloths were ratty, torn, and all of them supported bruises of their own.

_Look at what this war has done. How many have died? How many homes broken? And all for what? To stoke your Arrogance?_

_YOU did this to them. Bender. Monster. Equalist. By whatever name you call yourself, this is what the world sees of you. Traitor. Tyrant, Monster…_

The litany repeated as the gang finished their work, attacking him with no clear goal and no apparent pleasure with their results. The revenge did nothing to sate their anger, but Noa was too far gone in self-hatred to notice when they had gone. 

The paper crumpled under his finger-tips as he attempted to sit up, and he almost laughed. What had he been thinking, making idiotic plans again? What would Liue…he froze the thought before it got farther and tossed the paper away.

The best thing that he could do for the city now was leave.

No, the best thing he could do for the city was _die_ , but that choice had unfortunately been taken from him by a sputtering, dying younger brother who was too much of a fool to realize that a man famed for making safe vehicles would have anticipated the dangers of sparks and fuel-tanks.

Tarrlok…but he froze the thought. There was an entire landslide of regret contained behind that name, just as there was one towering behind the word Lieutenant. Neither of those things could be thought of now. Not when…

Not when there was nothing he could do.

Nothing he should do. He had ruined everything he had tried to build, destroyed the one friendship he had, and there was nothing he could do could repair the damage, simply because he alone had caused it all in the first place.

Why had he come back to the city at all?

The answer fluttered against the wall he’d built to hold the darkness in his mind back, and he refused to accept such pathetic, weak reasons. Amon did not feel grief, or regret, or anguish. He was a force of vengeance, of anger and purpose, not some sniveling child who took up a mask to hide the past. But the child was all that was left now, wasn’t it?

Noatak. A name of a weakling who perished in a storm, twenty years ago. But there had been ten years between the death of that name and the rise of Amon.

Noa. The name he’d given so hesitantly to the Lighthouse Keepers who had rescued him was not one he was unfamiliar with. The chi-blockers of the Earth Nation knew him by that name, as did the nomads of the Northern Steppes and the workers in the teaming port-cities of the Fire Nation. He had abandoned that life when he had come to this city, just as he had abandoned his abilities and the ideals that had once driven him. He’d been disgusted with what he’d seen of the world, hating every bender and government he’d met, and Republic City had seemed like the perfect place to take that anger out on the world.

So he’d created Amon, the epitome of everything he’d dreamed of over his ten years of traveling. He created a leader that he had wished existed: a powerful non-bender who could see the truth and force the rest of the world to acknowledge it.

But Amon had failed. He had never stepped down, never molded a new leader who could be true to the cause where Amon could not. And then the dream had grown too large, and there was no turning back…

And then Amon had destroyed everything he had cared for, just like his father before him. Everything he’d tried to escape by taking up the mask had returned, and he had become what he had promised never to be: the monstrous blood-bender, using his abilities to bully and oppress the weak.

Amon had destroyed the Revolution, not simply through his abilities, but because of his very existence.

And now he must pay for that. Amon was dead, but the man who once wore the mask still lived, and he had much to atone for.

——————————

It was Noa, not Amon, who went to the rally. He had debated staying away, afraid that he might lose control and reveal himself, but in the end he couldn’t. The city was in United Forces hands, and the Equalists were going to be disbanded. If nothing else, he needed to see the end of what he – what Amon - had created.

He stayed at the back of the crowd, blending in to the UF soldiers who had been tasked to keep things civil. He’d been at the arena since late the preceding evening, filling the time by writing the speech he should have given five years ago. He’d begun writing almost immediately after the movement began, and so most of the words were already memorized, the sentences falling onto the page like old friends, each one offering up a new irony given the way things had turned out.

He didn’t know why he rewrote it. Maybe as punishment, maybe a flash of the foresight he’d lacked for the past ten years. Whatever the reason, the pages of the speech were stuffed inside the ratty UF uniform, the feel of them a constant reminder of his failings and need to keep control.

Each new audience member tested that control. As they walked into the stands he could see their emotions; the shock and anger, the pain and hurt, and an ever-present horror at what they were about to witness.

It wasn’t going to be an execution. If it was, Noa would be up on the stage now, happily giving up his worthless life so the rest of the Equalists could live in peace. But in some respects an execution would be preferable to what these people were going to have to witness. For while the death of a man was unfortunate, the death of an idea was worse. Everything they had fought for – everything Amon had taught them to dream of – all of that was ending. There would be no Equality after tonight. Their world would return to how it had been, dreary, monotonous, but with the knowledge of that one day of difference.

That was perhaps the cruelest irony of all. Now the non-benders of Republic City were aware of what they lacked. They were aware of every slight and sneer, of being the butt of every joke, and above all of their own powerlessness to change their fate. The Spirit of the World had struck out against them and deemed their grievances unworthy. For one glorious day the benders had treated them with the respect and fear they deserved, but now that day was done, and the reality of failure was setting in.

Noa watched the arena, looking for a single sign of hope, without avail. Every face was grim, with benders showing anger and non-benders showing defeat.

He hadn’t anticipated how much seeing the Equalists would hurt.

They were lead on stage mid-morning, to the muted boos of the two-dozen benders in the audience. The non-benders were too shocked to make noise. The Equalists looked wrong without their uniforms on. They were just normal people – maybe a bit roughed up, and certainly looking like they hadn’t slept in five days, but just people. Take the masks off, and there was nothing to be afraid of.

But Noa almost lost himself when they were forced on stage. He knew these people. Their names flickered through his mind as their crimes were read aloud: Kali, the teenager who had grown up in the movement after her parents had died; Sen, one of the first Equalists and their inside man on the council-chambers; Hiroshi, looking haggard and broken, their financial backer…name after name flickered through his mind, along with their accomplishments over the ten years he had known them. Hiroshi’s grin after inventing his mech-tanks. Sen and the way he panted after he ran half-way across the city to bring news of a police raid. The expression on Kali’s face the first time she chi-blocked.

The entrance to the stage was behind the stands, and he was half way to it before he realized what he was doing. Amon would cause an explosion and rescue his comrades.

And they would hate him for it. He was the reason they were up there, the reason their lives and families had been uprooted, the reason their dreams had been destroyed. There was nothing he could do for them.

Then the Lieutenant walked on the stage.

———————————-

They had given him Noatak’s notebook for identification. They probably hadn’t meant to be cruel: to the UF forces everything was business, even when quelling a rebellious city-state. They had treated him with enough kindness, pulling him from the rubble and forcing him to accept the attentions of a healer. Apparently, attacking your boss and having the Avatar’s approval meant more to them than any of the real reasons behind his rebellion.

He didn’t have the energy to tell the truth. His world had been shattered with a few words and now the pieces wouldn’t go back together. The Equalists, the Revolution…all of it was quickly falling apart now that their leader had been revealed for what he was. A fraud. A liar. Another bender, simply using non-benders as a means for revenge.

It would be easier if he could have mustered hatred for the man, but while he was angry and felt betrayed, the knowledge that Amon was dead wrote over any lingering resentments he might have. He couldn’t shake the idea that he should have been on the boat, or that Amon should have killed him, rather than simply throwing him into a pile of timber.

The medic had tittered over that. She believed that the Equalist leader must have been incompetent with his blood-bending, to leave his Lieutenant relatively uninjured. Liu suspected it was the crueler reason of needing someone to leave behind to take the fall.

At least, that was what he had tried to make himself believe, before the UF Commander had walked into his cell and handed him the notebook. It was clearly Amon’s, and he hadn’t needed more than a cursory glance at the first page to confirm it.

But when he’d opened it, he’d gotten a glance at the man behind the mask, and hadn’t been able to set it down. It was like an answer had fallen into his lap. All of the questions he’d had, after the truth of Amon had been revealed…they were answered, here and there, scattered throughout the book between half-written speeches and playbills. This wasn’t Noatak’s journal – there was only hints of water-tribe and bloodbending written between the careful lines. But it wasn’t Amon’s either, not really. There was anger on the pages, directed at Benders, but just as often voiced in little complaints, of frustrations at the time new recruits took to learn or at the poor cooking at one of Liu’s favorite restaurant’s and a hundred other things.

He read the notebook, again and again, waiting in his cell for the UF to figure out what to do with him, and lost himself in the life of the this strange man his former commander had turned into. Complaints, plans, pictures, sketches…everything that the perfect revolutionary Amon couldn’t voice to his subordinates, even his most trusted one. There were fears written on the pages – the obvious ones of discovery or loss, but also unexpected terrors. Liu was touched when he read of Amon’s notes reminding himself to force his Lieutenant to find medical attention, or where to order the noodles his second liked. There were jokes to – outrageously bad puns and sarcastic quips, some of which even made Liu chuckle as he pictured his unflappable commander doing something so undignified as laughing. Stories, lists of exercises for recruits, maps, grainy photographs and poorly drawn sketches…

As he read the last dregs of anger seeped away, over the two nights that he spent in the cell, to be replaced with an odd aching loss. There was still a sullen core beneath it, libel to explode at any given moment, but that anger was something Liu had lived with for ten years, and while he was content focusing his ire on Amon…he couldn’t make it stay. The habits of ten years died hard, and the simple truth was that Amon hadn’t killed his daughter. Instead the man had been the perfect leader for ten years, giving Liu hope and a purpose, and asking only for loyalty in return. And this…this odd, conflicted man staring back at him from the pages was a man he wished he’d known. A man, against all sense, which he regretted was gone.

_But he’s a blood-bender_ , part of him screamed. _He lied to you, and tried to kill you._

_And now he’s dead,_ another part answered. _This is all that’s left of him. Fitting, isn’t it?_

But it wasn’t all that was left. To say that a notebook was the most important thing that tied Amon and his Lieutenant together would be a blatant, total lie. And when they dragged him on stage, with a pre-written surrender speech shoved in his hands, it wasn’t the notebook he was thinking about.

The Liuetenant looked out into the crowed, out at six hundred hopeless faces, and couldn’t find it in him to give up.

———————

He looked down, at the words decrying everything the Equalists had ever been, looked at the guards who held his companions and out again at his audience.

“I can’t read this.”

And then, as if sent by the spirits themselves, someone handed him a new speech.


	4. Purpose

Liu didn’t know who it was, the man who handed him the speech. Just another heavily bandaged soldier. He didn’t give the man a second thought, assuming until he scanned the speech that the man had been sent by the general. The other soldiers clearly thought so, else they wouldn’t have let him so close to the stage. But the words…

By the time Liu looked up the man was gone, vanishing back into the crowd, and there were murmurs of worry and disquiet trickling through the audience. If he didn’t speak, and speak now, they would begin to panic or worse, start to riot.

So he thrust aside his thoughts of the bandaged man, and spoke.

——————————-

“People of Republic City.”

The audience quieted, and for the first time it was the Lieutenant, not Amon, that was the center of attention. He tried to live up to their expectations and spoke, reading out the speech word for word, trying not to let his voice shake.

“We have given you a lie.”

There were murmurs, but no shock. This was a statement the audience had expected, after all.

“We have begun a revolution, and it has failed. We created a dream, but it has been shattered.”

He paused, ignoring the shifting of the guards behind him, focusing instead on the tense, frightened expressions of the people – his people – before him.

“We created a symbol, and it has proved to be a lie.”

He swallowed heavily, and plunged on.

“Our glorious leader has been shown to be a fraud, another bender intent upon using the plight of this city for his own gain. And these people – “ He gestured to the soldiers at his back “the representatives of the world government believe that this belies our ideals. That our resolve is so weak that we cannot handle the truth about our leader. And if we cannot accept this, how can we accept the reality of the world?”

His voice was cracking, and his words occasionally muddled. But all that Amon created from showmanship his lieutenant made up for with pure passion, and the crowd could feel that.

"The Avatar tells us that Amon was a lie. She has woven us a story of a boy so disgusted by his own abilities that he could not bear to use his own gift. And that story is true. Lieu- I was the victim of that gift.”

Unscripted, he tugged down the collar of his shirt, showing the vivid bruising and bandages to the audience. There were gasps.

“But does that belie his words? Amon told us that benders cannot help but destroy. And he demonstrated it himself, as this movement – our movement – turned into one not of peaceful protest, but of war and destruction.”

“The Amon I knew was a violent man, taking others fears and frustrations and driving them into rage and anger directed at the bending establishment.”

“But I ask you, people of Republic City, are we the less for this lie? Has Amon and the actions of the UF forces shown us that benders have the capacity for empathy and understanding?

“Or has the world indicated that our concerns are meaningless in the face of greater power?”

There was a hiss of anger from the soldiers at his back, but he continued, ignoring them.

“Are the streets today safer because of the rule of benders than yesterday under the Equalists?”

“I cannot answer that for you. I have no right. For as Amon has failed you, so to have the Equalists. We have given you a dream, of a future where there is true equality, but failed at making that dream a reality. Two hundred people died for our dream, and what have we accomplished? Today, throughout the city, benders believe that they have been proven right – that the Avatar herself has supported the oppression of non-benders, and that our place has been confirmed by the UF forces.

“Is that just? Is that fair? Should thousands suffer from the violent fever-dream of one man? Should the cry for justice be silenced because its bearer was imperfect?

“Or should we rise above?”

The Lieutenant paused, and looked out at the shocked and silent crowds. Then he pointed, back to the single remaining banner hanging in the arena. Amon’s face had been torn away, but the symbol for Equality remained.

“That is the challenge Amon left us, when he and his brother removed themselves from this world. Their taint is gone, and we must work to remove the damage they have done. But I do not believe Republic City should – or is even capable of – returning to the way things were.

“And perhaps it is time to turn, not to the Avatar who abandoned us to pursue a cure for her own bending, but instead to the peaceful Avatar before her.”

Liu closed his eyes for a moment, shocked at the words he was uttering, but continued.

“Avatar…Avatar Aang created this city to be one of peace and prosperity. He created it to bring together people of all Nation and abilities. Somewhere along the line, we lost sight of that dream. As the Bending Triads took control of this city, as the Council chose to support idiotic and repressive tactics, and as the world turned its back on us the Equalists became the only force that could give a voice to the Non-benders of this city.

“But the Equalists have been defeated. It is now up to you, People of Republic city, to chose whether to return to the past – the past that has lead us here, to a city in ruins and a society divided – or to build something new based upon a foundation that Avatar Aang would be proud of.

“I believe now is the time to return to the Avatar goals. Goals that the leaders of this city abandoned against the will of its people. It is up to you to choose whether those goals – and their messengers - are worthy.”

————————————————————

As Liu turned over the final sheet of paper, looking for further words, the applause started. It began somewhere close to the front; a single muffled handclap out of a man in a UF forces coat and bandages. But it grew louder and louder as benders and non-benders alike digested the words and were caught up in the hope for a better future. The world that the Lieutenant had spoken of – one of peace and real equality – seemed tantalizingly close, and after the horror of the last few days it was with relief that the people of Republic City grasped onto this new ideal.

For a single, brilliant moment the Lieutenant stood on stage, watching the relief in his people’s eyes. He couldn’t have written that speech. He couldn’t have taken that hopeless despair caught in the hearts of every Equalist and non-bender in the city and turned it into something approaching hope. And he wondered who could, other than Amon. Who else could have seen the notebook, and taken all of those half-written apologies and turned them into something so powerful?

But then the moment ended, and there was an angry mutter from somewhere in the crowd, and a guard pulled him off stage, whispering “That wasn’t the agreed upon speech!”

And it was over. The handcuffs were back on, and reality set in. But the memory of that hope still filled his heart, and maybe, just maybe, others would remember it as well.

——————————————

Noa watched as his former Lieutenant grasped the paper, touching his hand and not giving him a second thought. The realization that no one recognized him burned, and there was nothing he wanted more in that moment than to reach back and pull the man away from the stage, to rescue him from the mess that Amon had gotten them into.

But there was not a single spark of recognition in Liu’s face, and so Noa faded back into the crowd, managing to miss the shocked expression as Liu skimmed the speech and then the following desperate scan of the audience. But his eyes were on the stage instantly when Liu began to read, as if just by will alone he could coax the other man through the rougher parts of the speech.

Then, half way through, a man in the crowd had enough of Liu’s Equalist words. His body sunk low to the ground in a classic Earth-bending pose, and he moved to strike down the Lieutenant before he could further ruin the city.

And, just like that, Noa realized why he was still alive.

—————-

“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you.”

From a cold, distant place he watched as the man whirled, the attack forgotten, anger replaced by absolute terror. The man’s eyes wash over Noa, dismissing him without a thought, searching for the elusive mask rather than a bandaged beggar.

Noa hadn’t even lifted a finger. He hadn’t chi-blocked or blood-bent. A few simple words, and Liu was safe again.

So this was it. This was his purpose. For ten years Liu had protected him from everything. It was only fair that Noa return the favor.

And it would be so easy. The Earth-bender was already turning back to the stage, his anger forgotten in the face of the Lieutenant’s words of reconciliation. All it took was a few words, given in the authoritative voice of Amon. That same quiet conviction that had brought to heel both benders and non-benders alike could be used as a tool of protection, not power.

Noa spent the rest of the speech watching the crowd, silencing two more frustrated benders and one enraged non-bender with quiet, anonymous warnings. Later he would have to use force, against any real threats to his former Lieutenant, but for now moving through the crowd was easy.

It was strange, how quickly the role of guardian came. Ten years of watching Liu – the way he moved, the way his eyes darted around the room, his quick, quiet way of dealing with any threat – was enough. The man would never know he was there. 

And when the speech was done, it was Noa’s hands that began the applause. For ten years, Amon had looked for a replacement, hoping that one day he could step down and reveal himself. He had hoped that someone worthy would have taken his place. Someone worth protecting.

This wasn’t quite what he had expected.

It was better. 

After all, he could get used to being a guardian spirit.


End file.
